


Songs of Innocence & Experience

by Leviafan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drabble Collection, Gen, Inspired by Poetry, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviafan/pseuds/Leviafan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of vignettes from the lives of Jean Valjean and Javert, chronicling the evolution of their relationship. Inspired by the poetry of William Blake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Little Boy Lost

For a time, he still dreamed. Little by little the work and the hunger and the guards' blows eroded them to a stub, then a capricious wind blew away the dust that had become of them. But for a month he remained Jean Valjean, pruner of trees at Faverolles, and he still dreamed.

What did he dream of? By the second month he had forgotten, but he did remember that it was always the same dream. What might that mean? By the second month he no longer cared. He clung stubbornly to his name and for a while at least, to the memory of his sister and her family, because these were things even they couldn't take from him. Eventually the memory faded, and the name became no more than a symbol—but all the more important for it.

The real Jean Valjean slumbered so deeply he had forgotten it was there. It wasn't waiting to be awoken; had it ever been truly awake? It didn't know the meaning of the word. But being a creature of somnolence, a sliver of it had wandered through his dreams.

It was always the same.

_He is back in Faverolles, struggling valiantly against the handicap of chubby infant's legs. His father is ahead of him, engaged in pruning trees. The boy calls out to the elder Jean, for whom he is named, but he seems always just out of sight, out of hearing. No matter how fast he waddles, he cannot catch up. It grows dark, and he is alone, so alone. Mist falls on the orchard. His voice echoes through the avenue of trees but he receives no answer. He nearly drowns in his own tears, which become dew that only burns off under the harsh sun of Toulon._

The world outside of dreams was no better. To say whether it was worse required thought, and thought required time. They had no time here in the galleys. Oh, minutes passed, and hours, but they were barely allowed to take note of it. Even at night in their bunks, you worried about whether your neighbor might try to steal the crust you'd saved from supper, you worried until you fell asleep and then you didn't worry about anything at all. The only thing he knew was, it was beyond terrible. With every strike of a guard's baton, with every angry shout, he became more and more an animal driven into the wilderness.

Like Azazel, he bore the guilt of humanity. But unlike the scapegoat, he would not go quietly.


	2. The Little Boy Found

Also unlike Azazel, he was destined to emerge from that wilderness.

For a time it seemed he would be just another sacrifice in the name of nothing, another tally mark against the conscience of society, which even so was oblivious to those who suffered at its hand. But then a light in the darkness came. A white light, no dimmer because its source was silver, for it gleamed with the purity of calm conviction. At first it was just the silver, and it was tarnished. He drew closer, the man holding them became clearer. He was dressed in white, the habiliments of a priest—a bishop—a saint, for he could count as one of his miracles the transformation of a soul. He was radiant, brighter than candles, brighter than the sun at its zenith. Bright enough to guide out of the darkness.

On earth he was yet alone. He took the silver in passing and did not pause. But now at least in heaven one voice was his advocate.


End file.
